If romantics lay claim to February, then surely January must belong to the more practical, organized and resolute among us.

Like most Americans this January, we have been deep in our fulfillment of our unrealistic, short-sighted, and soon to be abandoned resolutions. While I have not as of yet archived the family photos into an album the size of Webster’s unabridged dictionary nor chatted saucily on Oprah’s couch regarding the inspiration of my latest best-selling novel, I have made some personally significant strides in the area of home organization.

After throwing out the rotting fruit from our many holiday gift baskets and picking out pine needles from most orifices, I took out a second mortgage and purchased a plethora of plastic storage crates, Rubbermaid containers, and a label maker. Then I proceeded to pack these crates with all of the odd household junk I could no longer find a space for and then transfer the boxed mess from the house to the garage. Since I never go into that giant playroom/storage shed/spider’s nest, I could no longer see the junk, it was cleaned. Problem solved.

Until my husband came home.

In our household, the division of labor is defined at the front door. Whatever is behind it is my responsibility, whatever in front, is his. Some days when I’m feeling particularly lazy, I’m tempted to move the washing machine and bathroom tile grout to the front porch, but that’s a different issue. So when he came home to find his area infiltrated by the stacks of boxes containing the inside front door items of books, old dishes, and jars of medical oddities, he was displeased. I still maintain that the dining room table was not the proper storage place for the box containing the fondue set and panini maker, only to be countered with his argument that the garage shelf which housed his golf clubs wasn’t either.

So like any thoroughly modern couple, we approached the problem through rational discussion and compromise. And when that didn’t work, we went The Cat in the Hat-esque route, and transferred the mess once again to a rented storage unit.

This actually fulfilled a long-time secret dream of my husband’s. Since we don’t have a basement and the den has recently been converted to my oldest son, Greg Brady’s, bedroom; he has lost some masculine personal space in the home. I concede that his 6 inch portion of the bed has been taken over by the puppy and even his closet houses some early nursery items for the new baby. He has no haven in his own castle. He also has a tendency to succumb to Little Old Italian Man Syndrome if left unattended watching "The Sopranos" for too long, so he has been talking about renting his own "social club" for quite some time. This was some mythical warehouse devoid of all femininity where he can just go with the guys and play cards, drink Chianti and make sauce. It’s actually so sad and pathetic that I never discouraged it, but simply bought him a card table and hot plate in support.

In this vein, I left the selection of the storage unit completely up to him. He dutifully took over the boxes of old clothes and college textbooks over to the undisclosed location--mainly to rest the humidor on I believe--and told me that it was somewhere "in the next county." Since I knew I’d never Mapquest it, I let it be. I just hope I won’t need the tax records from 1981 if he meets an untimely demise.

For the entire week, he’s been happily lugging boxes filled with junk, retrieving items placed there in error, and otherwise spending a few extra minutes "organizing" our storage unit. I picture him at this mystery location in an old Barcalounger that he rescued from the trash watching sports on a 9 inch black and white television with aluminum foil on the antenna munching on cheap snack foods with other displaced husbands. When he returns, his step is just a little lighter, and I pretend that I have a few more things that need to go over later in the week so he can have a few minutes without one of his many charges screaming demands. It is my humble gift to him.

I can’t help but think as I pack up those family photos that haven’t been put in the scrapbook yet in the next load to go over to the rented basement, that maybe there is a little romance in January after all.

©2007 Tracey Henry

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